


Fever Dreams

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Confusion, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Drugged Sex, Gaslighting, HYDRA Trash Party, Hospitals, Hurt, Injury, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is based on a prompt from <a href="http://silicadaisy.tumblr.com/">silicadaisy</a>: 'Rollins taking care of injured Rumlow? I'm curious as to how dark you'll make it go.'</p><p>In the wake of a nasty set of injuries, Jack signs Brock out of hospital. He sets about nursing Brock back to health, but Brock can't quite shake the feeling that's he's missing something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silicadaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silicadaisy/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Сон в лихорадке](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12931827) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



It’s too warm. Brock is vaguely aware of that. He’s uncomfortable, sweaty and strangely constrained. There’s a persistent beeping. A distant hum of activity. He hurts; he sleeps.

*

The next time he wakes up, there’s a nurse hovering over him. Her mouth moves but she sounds like she’s underwater, barely audible.

‘… feeling, Mr Rumlow?’

Brock squints at her. The overhead light is shining directly into his eyes. She leans in a little further and shades him from it.

‘What happened?’ he manages to mumble. He drifts away again before she can answer.

*

‘Jack?’ Brock says, like it’s someone he should know, but then Jack’s gone and there’s a sharp prick to the back of his hand and everything feels strange, like he’s falling, like he’s sinking into wet sand.

*

‘Jesus,’ croaks Brock to himself as he wakes up, gritty-eyed and thirsty. ‘I feel like shit.’ He tentatively starts moving his body: feet first, then aching legs. His lower back seems fine but his belly hurts, a deep, tugging internal pain. He can feel stitches pull in his stomach. His left arm is strapped down to his chest and his shoulder hurts like hell. His vision’s blurred and his head hurts. Well, he’s probably had worse. There’s a water jug and a full glass on the table to his right and he reaches out carefully, drains the whole thing. He doesn’t need to piss, but when he shifts he can feel he’s got a catheter in. He fucking hates those things. It’s not right, shoving a plastic tube up a guy’s dick.

Brock can barely keep his eyes open; it’s like he’s been drugged or something. He manages a hazy look around the room, though, scoping out his little territory. Small, plain, institutional. There’s a pastel print of some flowers on the wall. Blue curtains around the bed, pulled back on the window side to give him some light but screening him from the door. Brock’s an old soldier. He’s in a hospital, he’s semi-functional: he goes back to sleep.

*

— the beeping of the monitors is constant and there’s people around him, talking loudly and urgently and something’s wrong, he feels nauseous, his belly lances pain; he twists in the bed, moaning, and a pair of hands is firm on his shoulders to hold him still and the bed’s moving, cold air rushing around him and then everything goes black—

*

‘Well, Mr Rumlow,’ says a smiling doctor with a faint Eastern European accent. ‘You gave us all quite a shock last night.’ He sits down by the bed and opens a chart on his lap. ‘My name is Doctor Kotowicz.’ He’s young, long-faced and lantern-jawed with blond hair that’s already receding. _What a fucking nerd_ , thinks Brock, spitefully. Kotowicz pages through the chart with long, pianist’s fingers and lists off Brock’s injuries: a nasty concussion, a broken arm and scapula, broken ribs, bruised liver, lacerated spleen. ‘So you see,’ says Kotowicz patiently, ‘you have been quite sick, but we will have you home soon if there is someone to care for you. It will be bed rest for a few weeks for you, I’m afraid.’ He closes the chart and waits expectantly.

If nobody will look after Brock, he supposes the hospital will discharge him to SHIELD medical; that’s usually how it works. He hesitates, thinking about the next of kin form that he never updated after his bitch sister died. Kotowicz averts his pale blue eyes for a moment.

‘Rollins,’ says Brock eventually. ‘Call Jack Rollins.’

‘I’ll have somebody get the details later,’ says Kotowicz, immediately standing up with relief evident in his voice.

*

The thing is, it’s awkward because Brock doesn’t really know Jack all that well. Sure, they work together, he’s Brock’s second-in-command and they’ve had a beer together. There was that weird hand job incident in Malta that they don’t talk about, and one time Brock was drunk as hell and Jack’s hand ended up down his jeans, he thinks. Maybe. It was an odd night. Anyway, Jack’ll probably get him home, at least; he can always bullshit that he’s feeling fine and get rid of him.

*

‘Yeah,’ Jack says to the nurse helping Brock get dressed. ‘Yeah, I’ll sign for him.’ He grins out the side of his mouth like always, the curved scar on his chin pulling tight.

‘Right,’ says the nurse, all business and starch. She hangs Brock’s jacket around his shoulders while he glowers. ‘Let me review the care plan. Bed rest for the next week, as far as possible. You can sit out for a couple of hours a day. Small, nutritious meals, no alcohol. We’ll print you a care sheet for the medication, but you’ve mostly got painkillers now. After a week you can be up and about. You’ll come back here in two weeks and we’ll check you over.’ She fixes Jack with a steely glare from her five feet nothing of height. ‘Absolutely no strenuous activity.’

‘Like what?’ Jack smirks. The nurse looks between them with raised eyebrows, but she rallies, exuding professionalism.

‘Ah, you’re a friend or co-worker?’

‘Yeah, a co-worker,’ Jack says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and rocking back and forth on his heels with an air of mischief.

*

‘So you fucked up,’ Brock says once they’re in the car, and Jack chuckles.

‘Probably.’

‘What _did_ happen?’

‘You took a trip off a ledge, hit the balcony railing with your gut on the way down then bailed shoulder-first into the ground.’

‘Yeah, and you didn’t stop me, so you fucked up.’

‘Keep telling yourself that, buddy,’ laughs Jack, stretching an arm out his window and resting his hand on the car roof. He drives with the fingers of his right hand hooked over the bottom of the steering wheel, chews gum, tinkers with the radio. Brock can faintly smell tobacco on him, tobacco and the smell of old leather from his jacket and the seats.

*

‘Fuck,’ Brock says suddenly, ‘pull over.’

‘Gotta piss?’

‘Gonna puke,’ Brock replies, and Jack swings the car onto the grass by the road with impressive control. Brock hangs out the passenger door and hurls, right arm folded over his stomach. Nothing really comes up; bile stings his throat.

‘You done?’ Jack asks. Brock just flips him off.

*

‘We’re here.’ Jack’s shaking him awake. Brock look around, groggy and still nauseous.

‘This isn’t home,’ he frowns.

‘You’re at my place, idiot,’ Jack tells him. ‘Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you for a least a week.’

‘I don’t need—’

‘You wanna go back and fight that nurse?’ Jack calls, coming around the front of his car and helping him out.

‘I need shit from home.’

‘I’ll get it, Jesus, quit your bitching.’ Jack gets him through the door and Brock sags down onto the couch with a sigh. ‘Where’s your keys?’ Jack asks him, and Brock waves vaguely; he doesn’t know, in the kit bag that someone from SHIELD brought over, he guesses. Jack hunts them down and jingles them in his palm. ‘Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone,’ he says cheerfully. Brock closes his eyes.

*

His head hurts, oh fuck, it feels like it’s splitting open from temple to temple. Brock groans and covers his eyes with his right arm but the movement brings on a sick feeling and the room lurches. He tries to sit up in bed but it’s no good, his body won’t obey orders.

‘It’s the concussion,’ says Jack, right by his ear. Brock flinches from the sound, from Jack’s hot breath on his face. Another pillow is shoved behind his back, so he can sit just enough to grasp a glass of water. ‘They sent you home with the good stuff,’ observes Jack, rattling pills out of a pot with a noise like a roulette table in full swing. Brock groans again, fumbles the pills into his mouth without looking. They hit him hard; the rest of the afternoon gets kind of fuzzy. Jack leaves and comes back a couple of times, checks on him. His hands are gentle and warm on Brock’s bare skin, and Brock reaches out for him but he’s gone again.

*

‘How did you know my address, anyway?’ Brock asks, apropos of nothing, when Jack comes in at eight in the morning with a water bottle and some eggs and bacon. Jack smiles, lopsided in his way.

‘They don’t just let patients wander off with anyone,’ he answers, in a way that isn’t really an answer.

The eggs are good; the bacon’s a bit burnt.

*

On the morning of the fourth day, he wakes up sweating, face on fire.

‘Aw, hell,’ Jack says, touching Brock’s face with the back of his hand. He leaves the room abruptly. Brock thinks he hears him on the phone, but he’s too absorbed in the way the plaster on the ceiling is forming shifting animal shapes to pay attention to the conversation. There’s a dog with a peculiar, curling tail that stretches all the way over its head and it’s walking, or more like slithering—

‘Good dog,’ mumbles Brock, petting the bedsheets. ‘Good dog.’

‘I talked to the doctor,’ says Jack, and Brock’s confused.

‘It’s a _dog_ ,’ he explains, ‘not a doctor.’ Jack’s face looms over him for a minute, and there’s something cold on his face, and the dog slithers away out the window.

*

That night, he’s convinced that there’s someone in the bed with him; he swears he feels another body there, and they’ve got too many hands and their skin is like scales. He kicks out wildly, curses at the stab of pain in his stomach and up his left side. The curse echoes in the room, or he repeats it, he’s not sure. He remembers the snake-dog, its twisting tail and its hungry, gaping mouth. It’s gone though, it’s gone, it’s just a nightmare. He’s sick, he reminds himself, and then he spirals back down into hot, strange dreams.

He wakes up in the morning weak as a pup, but hungry.

‘Jesus,’ Jack says, helping him drink a glass of orange juice and eat some toast, ‘don’t fucking do that to me.’

*

‘Take these,’ orders Jack, handing him a couple of pain pills and a glass of whiskey. It’s good, expensive, smells like burnt caramel and smoke. He remembers that Jack’s always going on about whiskey, knows his stuff. Brock takes it without hesitation and washes down the pills.

‘Should you drink with these?’ Brock asks. Jack shrugs.

‘Never killed me,’ he says. Jack’s injuries are legendary among the STRIKE team; the guy’s got a habit of getting himself frighteningly battered in the field and just walking it off. He takes a handful of pills, tapes himself back together and keeps going. He’s got this story about how he used to be a cage fighter, how people used to call him Iron Jack. The story’s probably bullshit, but it’s a good nickname.

Jack’s not wrong about the painkillers – this is the top shelf stuff. Brock swears he’s not slept so much, or so well, all his life. Feels a bit odd, a bit off; he drifts in and out of consciousness, but he appreciates the rest.

*

Jack stretches his long legs out in his chair and turns up the football game.

‘No screen time for you,’ he says repressively when Brock sits up in bed. ‘Bad for your scrambled brains.’

‘You dragged the TV all the way up here just so I couldn’t watch the game?’

‘You can listen,’ allows Jack.

‘It’s the fucking Giants!’ Brock protests, and Jack reaches out and pats him soothingly on the leg through his blankets.

‘Shhh,’ he says, ‘you’ll miss the commentary.’

‘I’m glad _you’re_ enjoying your time off work,’ Brock snipes. Jack’s grin is fiendish. He doesn’t move his hand.

*

Brock shuffles to the bathroom and drops his balled-up boxer briefs into the sink. He runs some hot water over them and scrubs. He hasn’t had a wet dream since he was a teenager. When he woke up this morning, his shorts were plastered to his dick and his right thigh with semen, cold and still sticky. The last thing he wants to do is explain this to Jack; bad enough that the guy’s doing his fucking laundry.

*

A week passes, and Brock can get up and move around. He’s so feeble, sore and shaky, and he has to shuffle along the walls when he gets tired. It’s embarrassing. Jack’s a pal, though, helps him around with a strong arm across his back and never once makes fun of him.

*

‘Shhh,’ Jack says when Brock wakes up with a start. He’s cold; the blankets are off on one side. Jack gives the inside of Brock’s thigh a little squeeze. His voice is low and hoarse. ‘Shhh. You just had a nightmare.’

Brock doesn’t remember – doesn’t quite remember – in the morning. At least, he remembers something, but he doesn’t want to be weird about it. He’s all fucked up from the painkillers and the concussion right now. Hell, a few days back he was seeing _dogs_ in the ceiling.

*

The stitches in Brock’s side sting like a bitch when the nurse removes them. Free from the last remnant of surgery, he finds he can stand up fully straight. His head’s a mess, still; SHIELD medical are going to have strong opinions about that. The hospital, however, pronounces him mostly healed and send him packing with a referral to a concussion specialist and a recommendation to avoid driving, vigorous physical activity and getting shot up for another few weeks.

Brock finds himself itching to get home, to be alone, to be in his own bed. He can’t explain the pull of his own house. He doesn’t want to talk about it with Jack. What does his house smell like? Which sheets did he put on the bed last? It’ll be good to be able to make his own decisions, eat his own food. Lock himself in.

*

‘Did anything happen?’ Brock asks abruptly, as they stand awkwardly just inside his front door. The house smells a little stale, where it’s been shut up for three weeks. He hesitates. ‘Did we, these past couple weeks…?’ He has to force the words out, can’t quite make himself say it.

‘Why would you think that?’ Jack says easily, leaning against the wall.

‘We’ve got that history. Malta, and, you know…’ Brock trails off, embarrassed; fuck, he knew it was nothing. _Leather and tobacco_ , he thinks, leather and tobacco and the edge of the bed dipping, maybe, while he half-dozed in a fog of painkillers and booze.

‘Probably just a fever dream,’ Jack says, smiling, and Brock smiles back weakly.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, let me know in the comments! You can also come and scream at me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).


End file.
